The Devil's Thoroughbred
by Joel182
Summary: CM Punk is locked into his past, but soon finds the missing key to his future in a hellion in Dean Ambrose. Pairing: CMbrose (Dean/CM Punk). SLASH WARNING! MalexMale. Don't like, don't read. Others...Enjoy :D
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING EXCEPT THE PLOT. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED FOR WWE AND VINCE MCMAHON.

Enjoy :D

* * *

He has many names.

Soul collector.

Angel of Death.

The Grim Reaper.

Evil incarnate.

Satan's right hand.

The Deadman.

When I arrived here in this cesspool of new comers, I wasn't looking for him. It had been barely a seven months, but still pieces of him lingered and clung to my flesh – encasing me in a soft coffin. The kind silkworms wrap prey in. The kind spiders spin around their dinner. Right before they feed. It had barely been seven months, but I had managed to forget him. Not all…just the important parts. The parts that used to keep me up at night. The night terrors that forced me into days of awakened coma. For nearly seven months I felt less and less like myself, and more and more like who I had become. Because of him.

The Undertaker.

When I arrived here, I wasn't looking for him. But I found another him. I found the man they call the Devil's Thoroughbred.


	2. Chapter 2

"Come on Seth!"

"No."

"Come on. Just one bite and I swear you'll become a man."

I scoff inwardly to the very idea of Seth Rollins becoming a man. The act catches Roman's eye and forces me to focus on the window outside.

Thirty thousand feet off the ground. No longer in the city where you reside. Nearly a year has passed. What the hell am I still clinging to?

"Aaaahhhhhhhh!" Seth bellows and kicks the back of my seat – nearly sending me flying gut first into the open tray ahead.

I turn my head to shoot an angry glare to the headrest, but in passing I catch Roman's eyes still locked onto me.

"You so stupid!" Echoes past a bellowing fit of laughter. "You really ate it all!"

"Shut the hell up man! You stuffed it down my throat!" Seth cries with a swollen tongue. "Get me some fucking water already!"

I hear the seat belt unbuckle, which turns my attention to the ceiling above my own head. The seat belt sign is still lit brightly. A small smile turns inside me someplace, but doesn't surface. As little as this might seem, it's an everyday occurrence for him.

"Just ignore them." My eyes follow the deep, monotonous voice of one Roman Reigns to catch the big man leaning back comfortably in his seat.

"It doesn't bother me." I state off-handily whilst repositioning myself into a forward-facing state. "It's nice that they're having fun." A smile skims the edges of my face, "Young guys like you guys should have fun all the time. Don't let things become too serious."

Roman steadies a silent gaze on me making it hard to read his thoughts. "Is that experience talking?"

Tension rides my core for a moment, only to break in the middle and be swallowed into the calm lake I've surrounded myself with. "Babbles of an old man." I chuckle lightly, "That's what's talking."

Roman smirks briefly before looking ahead. "You're a funny guy Punk."

"Thank you."

* * *

The hotel was small and felt like a wet rag. My new contract had better, but my new contract didn't cover the horde I had taken into the WWE. This wet rag hotel in a rainy Indianapolis city was all I could do. Besides, they had free breakfast. Eggs and toast with coffee. I come to realize that I'm rather easily swayed by that word. Free. Life has always taught me that nothing is ever free. But I'm still non-resistant to the charms of that four-letter word. Just like I am non-resistant to another overly used four-letter word.

Love.

He'd say it so easily. I love you. Like it meant nothing. My whole life taught me that no one truly loves you besides you. So how did I fall from so far from grace and allow myself to be whisked away by those words, knowing what they meant? Knowing that, no matter how many times he whispered it into my ears with that split tongue of his, there was no love to be found here. There was just warmth on cold nights, and backs that needed scratching. I knew that, yet I fell hard and deep. So deep…even now I still trying to climb back out. Almost a year, and the end is nowhere in sight.

"Do you have a light?"

I look up to see the lean frame of one Dean Ambrose standing over me. His arm stretched out to touch the wall behind me, while the other one is sitting calmly in his pant pocket. The black turtleneck is rolled back at the sleeves to show a toned arm, and despite the slackness of the fabric, I can see the body that's been hardened by years and years of non-stop fighting. Looking at the smile sitting slightly more left on his face, no one could know that Dean Ambrose housed teeth that greedily tore flesh from bone. Looking at his messy blond locks, slicked back poorly by Roman's left over gel, no one could know that Dean Ambrose once scalped a man with the stubs of his fingertips right after the same had been done to him. Looking at Dean Ambrose, no one would know about the beast that lived and festered like an ugly boil behind a porcelain mask.

"I don't smoke."

"But Paul does." His smirk widens – showcasing just the tiniest bit of those gnashing teeth. "And I know he leaves the lighter with you."

/You know huh?/ I scoff sardonically to the very idea. Arrogance has to have a limit. "I don't have a light." I state firmly while standing to meet him eye to eye. "Besides, smoking is bad for your health."

Dean doesn't say or do anything directly afterwards. Then suddenly his smile contorts into a low snarl and the hand that had been tucked away sprung into action and tightened heavy fingers into the sides of my neck. My head slapped the wall hard – chattering my teeth to subside some of the force. A light winch regrettably utters over my escapee breath. The sound brings back Dean's smile.

"I'm bad for your health too." He leans in closer with a fire lit up in his crystal blue eyes. From the pockets of his lips, a long tongue darts out slowly and curves at the tip as it slides unaltered up the left side of my neck and ear. Once there, the tongue retreats. "But you're still addicted to me." His lips cover the rim of my ear – forcing a sharp rod of pleasure down my crooked spine. "You little slut."

I closed my eyes intensely to block out the sight of him, but my nostrils still took in his heavy scent. It corroded my resolve, and forced my eyes open once again. By now, Dean was staring at my with nothing but a half-an-inch separating us. From this distance I could smell blood on him even though it had dried up long ago. It churned the pits of my stomach, coercing me to swallow back the bit of vomit that threatened to leak out.

"Let me go Dean." I spit with a wild sense of authority.

Dean just stares at me – smile half-cocked, hold tightening around my neck. At this point I can feel the oxygen getting cut off from my brain, and in an act of desperation I place both hands onto his and claw away.

"Let me go Dean!" Turns into a shriek as by now my eyes start to lose their vision, "Dean!" I shout at the top of my lungs, all while tearing away at the arm that has apparently turned to stone.

Dean merely looks on with an eerie form of disinterest and unaffected calm, before releasing me in a quick fashion. Instantly I fall back onto the wall and nearly collapse had my knees not held up. He sticks close and does nothing more than watch me gasp for the air in the room – vacuuming it up with lighting speed. When my body catches back bits of itself, I find the strength to glare at him only to have the anger shot out of me by the hurt look on his face.

"Dean—"

"Just remember" He states with the tidbit of sorrow still shifting across his expression. "Out there, I won't play by the rules."

With that, he turns and leaves – slamming the locker room door behind him. My strength leaves me as I crumble back onto the chair beneath me. My eyes search the ground for clues to my troubled state of mind. It finds many things. It finds me in a cold, chain-link cell with my back on the mat. It finds me sitting on the icy floor of my Chicago kitchen, staring at an open fridge that housed my new title . In that thought, I automatically look to the title hanging off my closed suitcase. In that instant, Dean Ambrose returns to my mind. A bloodied Dean Ambrose. A beastly Dean Ambrose.

Without a moment's thought I scrambled over to my title, grabbing it up clumsily in my arms and clutching it to my chest. / I deserve this. I earned this./ My hands tighten around the gold face, /This is mine./


	3. Chapter 3

/It was all a lie./

"_You're a really good guy."_

/Everything was all a lie./

"_I respect you."_

/All of it…just…bogus shit./

"_I miss you."_

/Why didn't I see it sooner?/

"_I'll never leave your side."_

/Why didn't I notice the signs?/

"_I love you so much."_

/I'm so stupid./

* * *

The new contract was just the beginning. Many people think this is the goal. This WWE Title is it. A three-hundred and sixty five day reign is all CM Punk wants. But this is just the beginning. I'm taking my revenge. And this is just the beginning.

"You know I always wondered" Roman cuts into my thoughts mid-pump. He looks up at me with the bar still raised above his head. "Why us?"

I smile lightly, "Why us?" I retort, "You mean the Shield?"

"Yeah." He pulls down the bar and pushes it back up – holding it there for a second time. "Why us?"

"I don't really know." I keep an eye on the bar as it goes back to his chest. "But a buddy of mine said it best." The bar comes back, steadies, and returns to Roman. "He said, you can't change anything by sitting on your couch in Chicago." Once more the bar returns, "It hit me then that what I really wanted was to change the way WWE was and is. I wanted to make this place better. So I found guys who'd help with that."

Roman pulled back in silence. He repeated his actions for a minute or two before putting the bar onto the floor and sitting up. I watch in some form of confusion, trying to figure out what was on this man's mind. In a few moments, the big guy turns to face me.

"I understand why you picked me. My blood is in this business. And I know why you picked Seth. He's the best when it comes to in ring competition. So you don't have to sugar coat it."

"It's not a sugar coat Roman." I spoke nonchalantly, "I wanted change and yeah, I wanted some variety in my choices."

His unmoving, unreadable stare looks back at me. "So why Dean?"

My body freezes to the mere sound of the name. A strange wave of sickness crashes over me as I try my best to erase Dean Ambrose from my mind. Doing so puts me back in those maddening memories nearly a year old. I focus on my conversation with Roman hoping to buffer all things displeasing.

"Why Dean?" I parrot. Why Dean indeed. On that day nearly seven months into 2012, inside the cage of a four-cornered circle, I had seen a monster. A real life monster. And just like the monsters of Hollywood and TV, he fed on living things. He ripped them apart and destroyed everything he came into contact with. And he did it all with a smile on his face. I wanted variety. I could have said just that. But there's a limit to variety. I had brought in a generation star, a Daniel Bryan version 2, and a monster.

So, why Dean?

"He brings" I start on an uncertain foot, "mystery. Nobody really understands or knows him, and his background is anyone's guess." The words seem to find me with ease, "You never know what to expect with Dean, and that's a rare commodity."

Roman looks at me with a barely flinching expression. He takes a moment to think about my response before returning with fervor. "I've always been headstrong about wrestling, and because of my linage I always had the better way. I never had to go down another road, but that didn't stop me from looking at where that other road would take me." His tone dried instantly, "I found Dean at the end of that road. He was standing triumphantly atop a pile of bodies. Thirty…no forty bodies. All just piled in and around a poorly set up ring. He had won his match, but no one cheered. No one booed." His eyes shimmered with something unclassifiable. "They stood there in horror and fear, and didn't dare leave until he was long gone."

To the words, I too found myself standing in a sense of terror as the image of that Dean Ambrose whisked across my mind to combine madly with the image of Dean Ambrose I personally knew. It all mixed as well as oil did with water. As I fight with my mind's Picasso, Roman pushes himself up to a standing position and looks down at me with an overbearing sense of foreboding.

"Don't be fooled Punk. Dean Ambrose is a monster." He stated coldly, "Not a mystery."

Directly after, the bigger man walked away leaving me to tremble in my own skin – knowing how right he was.

* * *

My match had long since ended. I was sore. Ryback was going to pay for what he did, but that was for another time and another place. Right now, outside of script, my hip needed to heal. I had dislocated the joint before, but the table all but ripped it from the socket. The doctor patched it up nicely and said I would be clear in a few weeks. Vince had me set to wrestle the leviathan on the new episode of RAW. The sparse time gave me a piece of quality living. With crutch in hand I hopped about the little strip of city that didn't venture more than one hundred meters from my hotel. Greatly better than Indianapolis, this place was really no better. However, it kept me from him and my thoughts of him.

Then I fell asleep.

The first thing to return was his scent. It was faint – a year will do that – but it was there and I recognized it. The next to return was the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips. The touch felt alien, but real all at the same time. A wisp of wet hair ran over my face and traveled down the length of my torso. I pictured it in my mind. Raven black hair, similar to Roman's and just as long. Chapped fingertips peeled away at the skin around my ribs. It lit the spot on fire. I imagined his fingers tracing the outline of my body as if trying to commit it to memory. Or rather I had hoped this was the case. A year taught me that it wasn't.

Tight squeezes clumped up bits of my flesh, and those chapped fingertips drew circles in my now firm nipples. I heard a soft chuckle – low and raspy and imaged his breath running over my now heated flesh. By the time I felt his lips on my skin, I was ready. Ready to commit to what was happening. Ready to let this year go, to suspend the revenge and take in this one night.

The weight of a very real body pressed hard against my damaged hip. I grimaced to the pain, desperate to put it out of mind and leave way for this fantasy. However, in that moment the large hand with its chapped fingertips came over the sore spot and clutched it bone deep. This wrenched me from my sleep as a loud cry of pain came barreling uncontrollably from my mouth.

Instantly, I try to scramble away but the hand holds tighter forcing me to remain stationary in the pain. I put my hands out and dig my fingers deep into the shoulders of the intruder - trying to push away. Glowing eyes look back at me with a fearsome redness – attributed to the blood swelling madly in the veins of my eyes – as a grin follows suit. My pain, whilst throbbing uncontrollable to a numbing state, takes a back seat to the sight of the beast currently devouring me.

"D-Dean!" I barely call out to this creature before he grabs my sore body and flips it over madly onto the stomach. My bad hip gets in the way and takes some of the force. I scream again to the pain, but barely register the full extent before the horror of a stiff manhood presses against my ass.

In a split second I corkscrew my body to look at Dean – now centimeters from me – with pleading eyes. "Don't!" I shout angrily, "Don't—"

With a large grin steadied to his face, Dean rams into me again and again in rapid, painful successions. The first hit registers. The second hit does too. By the third hit, I've lost count and feel myself losing consciousness. To this, Dean grabs hold of my hips and increase the force and speed. My sore hip buckles to the hold and nearly chokes me in pain. I try to cry out, shout angrily, scream even…but nothing. Nothing but staggered and irrational breaths peep out – along with occasional feeble plea of 'stop'.

The night goes on forever and as Dean grabs my neck to force my lips towards him, I find myself unable to recall the hate I had carried a year. Instead, it is replaced countless times by this beast's vicious rape. My mind thinks upon what I've said. No one will ever truly know Dean Ambrose. Even now, I have no idea why he targeted me, or why - inspite of knowning his true nature - I've allowed him to. But it doesn't matter. Right now, the question of why I chose this man of 'mystery' is put eloquently on a backburner as my mind slips away into the dance of the moment. Despite having already left the play, The Devil's Thoroughbred keeps at it without a moment's hesitation. All while smiling to his own licentious tune.


	4. Chapter 4

The course of my life had changed when I turned sixteen. Just like Roman, I too had wrestling flowing through my veins. I didn't have a linage, but I had a desire to be in the squared circle preforming feats of insanity and glory in front of millions and millions. The childhood dream fit when everything else in my life did not, and for years I had fought tooth and nail to get to this moment.

Four hundred days as WWE Champion.

But, this was not my final goal. It had been – many years ago – but then I saw something truly spectacular and found in that moment a new goal. A new final goal. It has a lot to do with the message veterans pass on to rookies. The message I got came from a veteran in William Regal, who once told me legacies are not made, they are craved out from something greater. To every every guy who I have handpicked to lead the new charge of change I have said these words of legendary verbatim. Stamped it into their lives with brandishing potential, with a hope that it would become something of a daily prayer.

In respect to my own life though, Regal's words fit like a glove. They had become my daily prayer, in retrospect, as they matched quite well with this title. This title that states that I am the Champion, and yet, in that one moment not so long ago, I came to realize that it never mattered. Being Champion was not the greater from which my legacy would be carved out from. Being the Champion was nothing more than being the Champion.

Four hundred days as WWE Champion. This in itself is an achievement that would otherwise cement a legacy, but somewhere along the line – probably since that day – I had become greedy. This greediness of mine is nothing new. I've always had it in small portions, but it only truly surfaced the day I found myself lying at the bottom of a pit with the sun blocked out, and the exit nowhere in sight. The day he broke his promise, I found a new goal.

"This storyline is amazing Punk…no brilliant. It's brilliant!" Paul smiles joyously at me. I try to mirror it, but the pain in my neck worsens to the effort. "You're really cementing yourself as the backstage hero with this one." He gently places a hand on my shoulder and closes in with his wide smile. "And about that other matter, Vince is looking into it as we speak. We should hear something soon."

I nod lightly – aggravating the sore neck – and feign a smile in response.

Paul stands back momentarily before crossing his hands into a lock beneath his protruding stomach. It was sign I know all too well. "I know you'll probably disagree with me, but I'll say it anyways. You need to take a break Punk."

I rest the bag of ice on the bench and lean back as best I could to face him, "Paul—"

"Phil, I'm serious." He was. Even without the tone, having known him for years, I knew when Paul Heyman meant the words he said. "You've only taken a week off for that hip surgery and you came back even more damaged than when you left. Then you fight Ryback in a TLC match and injured your neck and shoulders to that oaf's Shell Shock." Worry encases his face, "You keep going like this and you won't make it to Wrestlemania."

A soft sigh depletes the air in my stiff lungs, "I know Paul, but I have to push through these days in order to get what I want." A frown caves into my forehead, "And what I want is the Dead Man."

Paul shakes his head slowly as he brings his crossed arms up to his chest area, "You're foolish to think you'll be able to even stand in the ring with him with all the injuries you're acquiring." He sighs defeated, "And then there's your alternate lifestyle." He stares sternly at me, "How many partners do you go through?"

I look to the floor in thought knowing the answer, "Just the one."

His face sells horror, "Don't tell me you're bedding that animal?" My silence answers for me, "Phil!"

"It's not like that!" I shout back, clenching my hands into fists, "I need this Paul." My eyes look back to him with a stream of desperation that I can feel glazing over them, "I need this. Especially now."

Paul stares at me. First it's shock. Then it's anger. Finally his expression rests on complete exasperation. We've heard this song before, and he already knows the lyrics. "I just hope you know what you're doing Phil, because if you fail—"

"I won't." I cut in immediately, "I can't."

He sighs once more, "I hope so buddy. I really do."

* * *

It had come without warning. I knew it was on the horizon the moment he walked through the door with that million dollar smile and exhilarating blend of confidence and arrogance. However, it still came without warning.

I was the Champion.

Four words. It isn't like this is the first time I've heard them. I had been a past tense champion before – many, many times before. In fact, one of those times served to set the stage for my ultimate fall from grace. And eventual rise to the top. However, it still is a hard pill to swallow no matter how much I tell myself that I knew this day was coming. I knew because I wrote the script. I knew because this was all just a stepping stone to the greater. I knew, but knowing did me little. And the pill still isn't going down.

For times like this, I shut myself off. I did it once before – became a recluse within my own self and pulled out to a false sense of change that never truly existed. I had lost many friends to that fallacy, but in it found the root of this corrupt and dying business. And with my pipe bomb, I blew up the root and the tree and planted a new seed in The Shield.

While I fell to the fame and fortune of one royal ass-kisser in Dwayne Johnson, the Hounds of Justice (as some chose to call them) stepped into the center stage with authority. Not a single living fan did not know and acknowledge their existence, their talent and their potential. For all three men, bright future's lay ahead. For me, however, a future is hard to look forward to at this stage. Over a year ago I decided to walk the bent path of revenge, and knowingly accepted the consequences. I have no future past today. I only have one goal. When the time comes, win at all costs.

"This is rare. You coming to me." I irk to the sight of that cocky grin, but keep myself steady at the hilt of the doorway. "Why are you here?"

"I challenged him." My voice skates slightly on the adrenaline still pumping through me. By comparison, July 26 was the only time I had ever felt that way. July 26…what I wouldn't give to be back in that mindset. Back in that moment when all that mattered was me, the title, and the door. But none of that matters now. Now it's me, a chance of revenge, and a grinning beast whom I've actively sought out. "He accepted."

"I heard." He leans on the door frame. "So, _why _are you here?"

My eyes lower slightly to break away from his lean naked torso, shifting through the barrage of answers to that question. "A little while back, I watched Jon Moxley tear a man's arm out of its socket. I watched Jon Moxley nearly rip off the ear of a personal wrestling god with his bare teeth. I watched Jon Moxley break a man's jaw with a shredded fist. I watched Jon Moxley get his head bashed in and come back swinging head butts, biting and clawing his way to victory." I look back to Dean's slightly perplexed expression that's cloaked by his bored eyes, "I watched you earn your nickname The Devil's Thoroughbred. And then I renamed you and sealed it all away."

Like a puppet on strings, he leans forward and instantly grabs the back of my head in a tight clutch. "You didn't seal shit. I'm still Jon Moxley. I've proved it every day since you took me on."

"I know you have." I grit my teeth momentarily to subside the pain of his hold, "That's why I'm here." Dean loosens his grip, "I want to become Jon Moxley. Just for one night, I need to be you."

A sinister smirk roots to his face as he uses his remaining hold to drag me into the room. In a second my body crashes to the floor as Dean pounces on top of me. His lips envelope mine in a heated and passionate kiss that lengthens once he grabs hold of my tongue. I claw at his back for air – which he eventually gives after biting down on my lower lip. I can taste my own blood as it spills over my sore tongue. However, I don't have the time to think about it as Dean instantly strips away his own clothes and pulls away my own. My pants fall short at my knees and my shirt buckles at the haft of my neck, but still Ambrose feasts on the flesh presented to him. He sucks and chews both nipples to impossible soreness, and all but stuffs two fingers into me. Working at lightning speed, he sloppily prepares me, before entering.

Not even a minute and I've already cum once.

Dean looks on in sadistic pleasure as he sets up for round two. He knows the night is still young…and so is he.


	5. Chapter 5

I never planned on falling in love. I don't really think anyone plans something like that. It happens when it wants and it happens either slow, or fast.

When I fell in love with Mark Calaway, it was the latter.

I know many guys in the back who have a wrestling favorite. A wrestler who is the very reason they live and breathe this life. For me, that wrestler was Randy Savage. There wasn't just any one thing that Randy ever did to earn my undying loyalty and respect, but everything he did resonated with me in a way that said you can be who you want to be and that's okay. At the frail age of sixteen I needed that center. And that center only strengthened when I found the straight edge lifestyle. It synced with Randy Savage who went out and fed off the crowd and affected them in ways now impossible. People cared about Randy Savage. I cared about Randy Savage. Then I discovered Randy's drug abuse and my respect fled.

For a while I sat lost – watching guys like Edge and Christian come up and tout their favorite wrestlers in Hulk Hogan and Brett Hart as their guiding lights – and believed in the cessation of my dream. Then along came Mick Foley. Along came William Regal. Along came Eddie Guerrero. Along came Colt Cabana, and I realized idols did not make or break my dream. I did. With that I came up the ranks flying with a wave of popularity and heat following right behind me. However, because I did not fit into any set mold, the company I wanted to be a part of sent me choking on the exhaust fumes of a forgotten OVW. In that hell hole I found myself turning into something angry and hated. I found myself becoming sixteen year old Phillip Brooks. However, just when the light dimmed, Paul Heyman walked into my life and from there I made it through the door.

Ever since Paul, I found myself always believing that there was light at the end of every tunnel – no matter how dark and abandoned that tunnel seemed. When ECW fell, I still looked towards that light. When I lost my IC Title in a throw way match with one of my favorites in William Regal, I still looked towards that light. When I won the Money In The Bank contract twice and became Champion…at this stage I had believed it to be the end of my road. The pinnacle. I was World Champion. And then I was pushed into the background. The first time, I was merely a tool in someone else's story. As for the second time, I was being faded out with no hope in sight. And then like clockwork, a light showed up in the Minister of Darkness himself. Mark Callaway.

With nothing but words and a smile, Mark turned my heart towards him and the idea that he was always doing the best for me. My respect for him came just as naturally as our friendship. Then, as the months passed, it escalated. Like now, I look back and find myself thinking that I was in the wrong. It was doomed to fail because the one who falls in love first gets hurt. And I had fallen in love first. I had forced my love on Mark until he eventually gave in. And I was happy.

For nearly a year, I was happy. With Mark, it was heaven on earth. For the sake of business, Mark insisted on keeping our relationship a secret and I never stepped outside the bounds he set in place. However, our love did not stop the overlooking of my Championship, and in the ultimate show of compassion, Mark stepped in with an idea. Face him, the Undertaker, in a World Title hell in a cell match. The idea of fighting Mark – hurting Mark – turned me away at first, but he constantly assured me we would keep it minimal. And at the end of the match I would win and walk away with the respect I deserved. He would lay down for me to allow me that light at the end of this tunnel.

Hell in a Cell came, and at the end of it all, I was staring up at the bright lights of the arena as a former World Champion.

Quickly, we descended into destruction as Mark soon became another person. Despite my pleas and my promises to forgive and forget, Mark insisted that we were not worth saving. That I was not worth being with. And at the cusp of it all, in the emptiness of an abandoned locker room, I discovered what had taken hold of Mark Calaway. I flicked through the photos featured on the WWE website and found out that the man I fell in love with had already belonged to someone else. I instantly discovered in that moment that never once had I held a place in his heart the way he engulfed the entirety of mine. I was merely something to pass the time. Something to play hero with and then disregard once he had gotten bored.

The promise, I soon discovered, was never what wounded me. It was the face I never knew. The face I never saw coming. That proved to be the greatest betrayal of all. The undoing of something I once believed I had - a future beyond the squared circle.

In light of Hell in a Cell, some will look at this night and say that this is a poor revenge. A year of anger and distress. A year of planning and preparations. And all I have to show for it now is an empty threat. All I can show is a mirror reflection of where this all began. Me lying on my back in defeat and Mark basking in yet another victory. Some will say this is a poor revenge. Paul might even be looking now and thinking 'where did I go wrong?' Roman might just be looking and wondering what this means for The Shield. Seth isn't watching. And Dean…

"_Why us?" _

_I smile lightly, "Why us?" I retort, "You mean the Shield?"_

"_Yeah." He pulls down the bar and pushes it back up – holding it there for a second time. "Why us?"_

I had wanted to say then what I'll be saying sometime in the future. But for now my voice will remind you that a legacy isn't made. It is carved from something greater. So Dean, if you're standing backstage confused by my actions, mislead by what we've done and what I'm doing now, understand this. I'm not walking away because I lost. I always knew I wouldn't win. But this is my closure…my way to move on. My chance at a new future. And when I return, I hope to see, standing in this ring, the Devil's Thoroughbred.

My something greater.


End file.
